


take it easy on me

by prouvairing



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Coming In Pants, First Kiss, Frottage, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-05
Updated: 2014-06-05
Packaged: 2018-02-03 12:40:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1744964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prouvairing/pseuds/prouvairing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He says, “Fuck, here he comes. Kiss me, quick!”<br/>He doesn’t know why he thought it a good idea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	take it easy on me

**Author's Note:**

> Seriously considered just calling this Sudden Kissing because I’m unimaginative, but because I’m unimaginative I went with song lyrics _again_. Also, [Beth](http://besanii.tumblr.com) said this killed her, which I count a compliment. Many thanks to her for verb tense counseling.  
>  Baisc plot from [this ask](http://sarah-yyy.tumblr.com/post/87692442778/sarah-sarah-grantaire-seeing-so-he-doesnt-want-to) that was sent to Sarah. I guess I was the one who gave in.  
> I'd like to point out this is was 100% venting frustration at my parents. With porn, yeah.

_Here we go again_   
_I kinda wanna be more than friends_   
_So take it easy on me_   
_I'm afraid_   
_You're never satisfied_

-Animal, _Neon Trees_ -

* * *

 

 

Grantaire had not expected this particular turn of events.

When he sees Benoit walk into the cafè, his stomach flips unpleasantly, where before it had been warm and giddy in the way it was only while he was arguing with Enjolras.

Because he’d been arguing with Enjolras.

Of course.

He barely remembers what it was about. The wage gap? Voting rights? Media representation? No clue. He only knows that Enjolras’ eyes had been burning, and there had been spots of red high on his cheeks, and he’d been close enough that Grantaire could have counted the freckles on his nose.

Arguing with Enjolras is pure adrenaline, his heart beating double time and both their breaths coming shallow, as they circle each other closer and closer.

Grantaire always thought that was the closest he’d ever get.

He should be used to being wrong all the time.

Benoit walks in – his ex, Benoit, whom he’d much rather not think about ever again. It had been a bad break up, but that is unsurprising. Grantaire has a history of them.

He stops mid-sentence and some of his dread must show on his face, because Enjolras stops and turns as well. In seeing Benoit, his mouth twists like he’s swallowed something sour.

Grantaire says it almost as a joke, because Benoit is looking at him and seems to have all the intention of coming over and _like hell he’s gonna have that particular conversation._

He says, “Fuck, here he comes. Kiss me, quick!”

He doesn’t know why he thought it a good idea.

It might actually have been his worst idea yet, because Enjolras has turned around now, burning blue trained on him again and he’s closer than ever.

And he barely has time to process it, before his back hits the wall and Enjolras’ lips press against his.

He makes a strangled, undignified noise, and his arms flail out for something to steady him. Enjolras’ hands catch them – holding his wrists, holding him together. Pressing him against the wall more firmly.

And his mouth, his mouth is doing wicked things, coaxing Grantaire’s lips open and negotiating his way inside – not that Grantaire is putting up much of a fight. Really, he welcomes Enjolras’ tongue quite enthusiastically, with a low moan to underscore his point.

He feels Enjolras grin in the kiss, then pull back to nip at his lower lip. He makes a tiny, pleased sound, and Grantaire arches against him.

Somehow, Enjolras’ leg has found its way between Grantaire’s thighs, and suddenly there’s _friction_ , and it’s absolutely inappropriate for a public setting and Grantaire doesn’t give a flying –

Enjolras stops.

They’re breathing hard in the tiny space between their mouths, and Grantaire wants nothing more than to close it again, to press against Enjolras harder, closer, longer. But he is frozen, because Enjolras has stopped.

Enjolras’ lips are red and bruised and Grantaire has a moment to think, _I did that_ , before they curve up into a smirk, and all Grantaire can think is, _Oh._

“I think he’s gone,” Enjolras says. And – _what?_

“Who?” Grantaire breathes.

Enjolras’ smile widens like that’s the right answer. “Your ex. I think he’s gone.”

“Oh,” Grantaire says. “Oh, right. Yeah. _What_?”

Enjolras bites his lip and steps back slightly. Everyone is _pointedly_ not looking at them, and Grantaire suddenly registers the outside world.

Oh, right.

He barely has time to freak out about this, because Enjolras is running a hand through his own hair, patting it in place, then reaching out to straighten Grantaire shirt and brush invisible lint off his shoulders.

It’s all so surreal Grantaire doesn’t really know what to do with it, but then Enjolras has the audacity to grin and say, “Come on, we’ll be late to the meeting.”

He tugs Grantaire along, tugs him _by the hand_ and wow, is he dreaming all of this?

He’s too busy thinking, _what the actual fuck,_ to even remember about Benoit.

 

*

 

If Enjolras thinks they’re not going to talk about this, he’s got another thing coming.

They’re about ten minutes from the end of meeting, all crowded the backroom of the Musain, and Grantaire hasn’t been paying attention for the entirety of its duration.

Well, he hasn’t been paying attention to the actual _meeting_. He has, in fact, been paying attention to Enjolras. Way more attention than usual, which for him is a record, but he usually _at least_ pays attention to the actual words the man is saying, and not just to how unfairly beautiful he is.

But today is different, with the memory of Enjolras’ hair against his cheek, and his clean scent, and the curve of his smile against Grantaire’s lips –

And of course there’s the fact that Enjolras keeps meeting his eyes across the room. And that he keeps finding excuses to pass by where Grantaire is sitting, and _touch him_.

It’s his fingers trailing lightly across Grantaire’s shoulder, or his hip bumping into him, even going as far as leaning over Grantaire’s shoulder to see something Feuilly is drafting on his laptop.

He’ll head back to his spot by Combeferre and Courfeyrac, after, and he’ll look at Grantaire and he’ll _grin._ Like he knows exactly what he’s doing, the bastard.

Grantaire lingers after the meeting, and it’s quite clear Enjolras knows it’s for a purpose. When Combeferre looks at him expectantly, waiting for him by the door, Enjolras waves him away and says he’s going to catch a bus.

Combeferre throws Grantaire a sidelong look, where he’s sitting at his usual table and making a point of drawing a caricature of Joly and Bossuet in his sketchbook. He nods once before leaving, grinning like he knows exactly how this is going to go.

Grantaire would like to ask him, because he, for one, has no fucking clue.

There’s a single moment of drawn out silence, before Enjolras walks over and leans back against the edge of the table, looking down at Grantaire.

He’s popped open the first two buttons of his shirt, and he looks like sin, as usual. Grantaire would think he’d actually done it on purpose if he didn’t know Enjolras seems unable to button his shirts all the way – ever.

“So,” Enjolras says, licking his lips. Then he falls quiet.

“So,” Grantaire repeats, putting away his sketchbook, and doing his best to look like he isn’t freaking out. “Want to tell me what happened back there?”

A small crease forms between Enjolras’ eyebrows. That’s a familiar look, at least. “You asked me to kiss you. So I did.”

“I didn’t think you really would,” Grantaire mutters, nervously getting his stuff together. He doesn’t make a move to grab his bag though, and Enjolras’ eyes track his movements.

“So what,” Enjolras says, and for the first time tonight, he looks uncertain. “Did you not want me to?”

It’s such a silly question that Grantaire can’t help but scoff and say, “For fuck’s sake, Enjolras.”

He knows he’s fucked up when his reply makes Enjolras startle and widen his eyes. His knuckles whiten where he’s gripping the edge of the table. “That’s – that’s not an answer,” he says, and yes, that’s uncertainty in his tone. “Didn’t you?”

And God, is he for real? Grantaire had thought he’d been plenty obvious, but apparently that isn’t the case, judging by the way Enjolras is pursing his lips and searching Grantaire’s face.

“Of course I did,” Grantaire says, just because he can’t stand that look on Enjolras. “I always do.”

Enjolras’ face softens, like magic, and a faint smile returns. “Well then,” he says. His shoulders relax, his hands let go of the table. “I hope it’s not too forward, but would you mind if I did it again?”

That startles a laugh out of Grantaire. Something heady and warm is bubbling in his chest, like when they argue, but lighter. He shifts so he’s in front of Enjolras, and gingerly steps in between his legs.

“Too _forward,_ Christ, you’re ridiculous,” he says, but it doesn’t come out half as sharp as he’d wanted it too.

Enjolras’ smile widens and he shrugs, listing forward. “That’s not an answer either.”

Before he can talk himself out of it, Grantaire kisses him.

Enjolras makes a lovely, pleased hum. Grantaire’s hands land on his thighs and trail along them, up to hold his hips. Enjolras’ fingers find their way through Grantaire’s curls, and he moans against Enjolras’ lips when they tug.

“Still not – still not an answer,” Enjolras says when Grantaire pulls back just to latch onto the juncture of his jaw and neck. His voice is considerably lower, breathless, and it makes Grantaire smile against his skin.

“There’s something to be said for non-verbal communication, you know,” Grantaire says, now intent on sucking a mark on his collarbone. Enjolras _whines_ and God if it isn’t the most beautiful sound.

“ _Grantaire_ ,” he says, in an irritated half-growl and no, correction, _that_ is the most beautiful sound.

“ _Yes,_ ” Grantaire breathes, and pulls himself back up until they’re nose to nose. “Fuck, yes.”

Enjolras _pounces_ , then, crashing their lips together and standing up abruptly, crowding close. He grabs Grantaire wrists, and pushes back until Grantaire finds himself pressed against the wall again, arms pinned above his head.

 _Jesus fuck,_ is all he can think, and then he doesn’t think anything at all.

Enjolras kisses him thoroughly, licking into his mouth, and Grantaire is distantly aware of the fact that he’s making high, needy sounds. He does not have the coherency to be even the slightest bit ashamed.

He does, however, arch up against Enjolras, and bucks his hips for good measure. They both hiss at the contact, and Enjolras takes the chance to pull Grantaire’s leg up to his waist. Then, he rolls his hips against Grantaire’s in retaliation.

The movement makes them both groan, and they break apart. They don’t move far – lips still so close that when Grantaire speaks they brush against Enjolras’.

“Here?” he says, grinning. “Classy.”

Enjolras’ is so close he fills up Grantaire’s entire field of vision. His pupils are blown, and Grantaire is pretty sure the only thing holding him up is Enjolras’ hands, on his thigh and on his wrists.

“Well,” Enjolras pants. “Do you want to get on a bus and head home?”

Grantaire growls because _yeah, right_ , and grinds up one more time. “I don’t think so.”

Enjolras smiled and bent to catch his lips again, slow and so, so good. “I’m going to make it up to you,” he says against Grantaire’s mouth.

A vaguely desperate laugh bubbles up from Grantaire’s throat. “ _God_ , Apollo,” he whines, as Enjolras trails kisses across his jaw, then down his neck. “This is good, it’s great. Just like this. _Enjolras._ ”

The last moan of his name seems to be what does it, because Enjolras makes a sound like he’s dying, and starts to thrust in earnest.

“This really isn’t going to take long,” Grantaire moans. “Yes, like _that._ ”

They find their rhythm soon enough, all finesse thrown to the wind, and they’re grinding, rutting, breathless gasps and moans falling from their lips.

It does not take long, much as Grantaire had predicted, and way too soon he feels the familiar tug and warmth skidding across his skin. He barely has the time to choke out Enjolras’ name before he’s tensing up and coming.

Enjolras only takes minutes more. He moans brokenly against Grantaire’s neck, and finally lets go of his wrists to grab at Grantaire’s hip.

His hands now free, Grantaire grips at Enjolras’ hair to pull him up in a kiss – languid on his part, just this side of desperate on Enjolras’.

His other hand brushes down along Enjolras’ belly and ducks inside his pants to help. Enjolras is too wound up for it to take very much at all – a few strokes and he’s coming too, warm in Grantaire’s hand.

They slump against the wall, panting, trading the last few lazy kisses.

Grantaire brushes his nose against Enjolras’ and says, “So we may have miscalculated this. We’re gonna have to ride my motorcycle with wet pants.”

Enjolras groans, but it sounds something like relief. “Thank God, I thought we were gonna have to take _the bus_.”

They laugh quietly and Grantaire feels like his chest is about to burst. Enjolras’ blue eyes glitter when they look at him, and it feels like a miracle.

“Back to mine?” Enjolras says, and kisses him gently. Grantaire all but _melts._ “Stay over?”

Grantaire couldn’t stop grinning if he wanted to. “Thought you’d never ask.”

**Author's Note:**

> It's finally out, good god, this fic too way too much time.  
> Thank you all, and [come say hello on Tumblr.](http://seagreeneyes.tumblr.com)


End file.
